Above and beyond? Richard had no fucking idea.
* * *
He woke to a headache lit up by a bolt of lightning and head-butted by a crash of thunder. His scaredy-cat dogs hurled themselves onto the bed for protection, and somebody’s bony elbow dug right into Clancy’s diaphragm.
“C’mon, guys. You’re too big for this. How many times do I have to tell you?” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor, and, to their credit, they jumped off without complaint, though their ears were pinned back and tails curled up between their legs. After giving his face a quick scouring with his hands, Clancy rolled over to check his cell phone—five thirty-two a.m., Sunday of festival week, Island Day—and it was raining like a son of a bitch.
But that wasn’t his biggest problem. Today was the day he had to deal with Evie.
Just then it dawned on him—he’d dreamed of her. Clancy let his head fall on the pillow and allowed the images to take him back. Evie was running down the beach, her laughter clear and joyous in the wind. Her little nephew giggled as Tripod and Earl nudged and licked him. And that was pretty much the whole dream—no plot, no Freudian symbols, no screaming for help, nothing even remotely sexual. It was simply Clancy being aware of that moment and how good it felt to share it with Evie and Chris. He felt lucky in the dream. He actually felt happy—and lucky in love.
He’d had enough of these dreams. He didn’t have the spare brain energy to deal with them right now.
He jumped up, made coffee, and got dressed. He was out the door by six—both skittish dogs in tow—and at his desk by six fifteen, pools of water forming by his feet. It never failed—at least one day during the Mermaid Festival was a partial washout, but if it happened on Island Day it was a major problem.
Two hundred craftspeople, artists, and food vendors descended on Main Street on Island Day, and carnival attractions occupied the dock and museum lot. In decent weather, Island Day would be the most crowded and popular of all festival week events. Thousands of day-trippers arrived in the morning and left in the evening, exhausted, stuffed with lobster rolls and fried blueberry pies, and holding their just-purchased watercolor painting, carved jade necklace, or giant origami dolphin. But if a storm front moved in and didn’t blow over, a lot of people would lose a lot of money today. And the Bayberry municipal government would miss out on a crap-ton of tax revenue.
Clancy’s head pounded. He turned on his preferred early-morning TV news, deciding he would listen in while he finished paperwork.
“Morning, Chief.” Chip stood just outside the office door, soaked through to the skin. “What are you doing here so early?”
He pointed to Tripod and Earl spooning together in their dog bed in the corner. “My alarm clocks went off early.”
Chip laughed. “Poor fellas. Yeah, it’s a loud one—that’s for sure.”
Clancy started in on the stacks of work on his desk. Though a lot of the police station’s reporting was now completed digitally, they were still slaves to a variety of forms, charts, and reports—all of which required his signature. “So what’s happening, Chip? Busy night?”
He shook his head. “Pretty quiet, but the evening shift had to break up a party on a private yacht down at the marina—bunch of investment bankers.”
“Naturally.”
“We think they tossed the evidence overboard before we got there, you know, the standard rock-in-a-baggie trick.”
“Gotcha.” Clancy kept at his paperwork.
Chip continued. “The rain kept people off the beach and streets and sent them into the taverns, so it was a controlled chaos.”